


Until We Bleed

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Dark, M/M, Murder, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:17:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer before your sophomore year of high school, your father gets a tip on a poltergeist down in Kentucky, tucked up near the Indiana border, somewhere near Louisville.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until We Bleed

**UNTIL WE BLEED**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; evil!Sam; abuse; drug use; character death; murder

  
The summer before your sophomore year of high school, your father gets a tip on a poltergeist down in Kentucky, tucked up near the Indiana border, somewhere near Louisville. You had been living in Montana for a while, squatting in an abandoned ranch house, going to town for food and water, watching Sammy while your father hunted or drank or fucked, coming home with a few extra dollars from hustling pool, maybe a black eye if things got a little too rough. Sammy would go to school, bring home textbooks dog-eared and highlighted, bring home stacks of library books that had nothing to do with demons or ghosts, but everything to do with medicine and law and math. You cleaned the kitchen and practiced your shooting out in the back woods, setting up rusted tin cans on the fence running the property, aiming one of your father’s rifles and shooting with real bullets instead of rock salt.

Sometimes, you drank. Sometimes, you would sit besides Sammy, his chin tucked to his chest, his hand curled by his side, sit beside him and watch him sleep, his lashes fluttering on his cheeks, his mouth partly open, waiting for your father to come home, stumbling through the front door and cursing when he would trip on something crumpled and forgotten on the floor. Sometimes, Sammy breathing even and soft next to you, the hum of the fridge, the sound of the wind hitting the chimes on the front porch, sometimes, you could just hear it, your father’s shallow breaths as the sobs overtook him, his fist curling in the sheets on his bed.

You never kept anything of your mothers. Your father used to tell you that the fire took everything, but you’ve been able to see through that lie since you were about Sammy’s age, able to see through the weathered face of your father, able to see the wrinkles and worry lines and gray hair peeking through his façade. You never kept anything of that life before the fire, weren’t allowed inside the house in Kansas after that night, even when your father started losing it, even when your father didn’t know what to do, before he met Missouri. Before he met Bobby and Pastor Jim.

Sometimes, you could still smell her perfume. Sometimes, when the wind hit just right, the sun sloping below the horizon, the crickets chirping in the yard, the porch creaking with exhaustion, sometimes you could just feel her skin against yours, soft and warm and alive. Sometimes, you could almost pretend like she was still here, waiting for you in the belly of the house, her blonde hair losing color, her skin creased with age, her voice quiet and tender in the late afternoon.

Sometimes, you think your father felt her, too.

Sammy was growing up fast, getting taller and taller everyday, losing baby fat with growth spurts, gaining muscle from lifting weights and running the poorly paved roads for hours, just so he could be ready if your father ever asked him on a hunt, just so he could impress you, impress your father. Then, in Montana, when Sammy was still little, not yet a teenager, when he still stood behind your family, stood behind all the vengeance and bloodshed, well, that’s when Sammy still wanted your father’s approval. That’s when Sammy still wanted to belong, read your father’s journal like the Bible, took apart weapons just to learn how to put them back together, how to saw off a shotgun, how to make bullets out of rock salt, how to sharpen your father’s knives, tracing symbols of protection all around the lines of his homework, just so he could draw one if your father ever asked. Just so he’d be ready. That’s when Sammy still believed in this life, saving people, hunting things, drinking yourself into an early grave because your father never smelled like himself anymore, just musky like whiskey and old leather, just worn down, the copper tang of blood from split lips and broken knuckles. That’s when Sammy could still see past your father’s weathered face, his stumbling in the dark, his gruff voice just as sharp as his hand, bruising whatever part of your flesh showed.

Then, in Montana, when Sammy was still little, it was you who got the brunt of the abuse, it was you who stood in the way far too often, and it was you who couldn’t go to school until your black eyes stopped swelling and starting losing color, until the weather turned cooler so you could hide the bruises on your arms with shirt sleeves. It was you who spat out insults and got into fights and pressed him until he reacted, questioned this existence, because if you played the good little soldier all of your life, is this who you’ll become? Your father?

Sometimes, nothing answered you but the force of his fist. Sometimes, he couldn’t even look at you because he’d just see your mother.

Then, in Montana, you cooked dinner for Sammy when he got home from school, left a plate in the fridge for your father, whatever you could afford wrapped up in tin foil next to the bottles of beer. Then, in Montana, you cleaned the house, tore away rotting wood so Sammy wouldn’t fall through and break his leg, pulled out loose nails so Sammy wouldn’t snag his elbows, made the beds every morning, locked up what you could at night, careful not to disturb the lines of salt near every window, near every door. Then, you played nurse maid for your father, helped him stumble into his bedroom when he couldn’t make it past the kitchen, when he slumped to the floor and sat there mumbling curses to himself, when he would see you and tell you that you never knew how hard it was, watching your wife burn up before your eyes, the fire turning her bones to ash. You never knew how hard it was, caring for two baby boys when all you got is the clothes on your back and this weight in your chest, this thirst for revenge.

Then, you were everything your family needed, and nothing they wanted.

***

In Kentucky, Bobby says, “It used to be a sanatorium for tuberculosis,” his finger tracing a circle on the map, right where the building should be, right where the highway branches out from a road that curves deeper into the woods. Your father’s face is lit by the lamp on the hotel dresser, next to the broken TV, the cracked mirror, your father’s face weathered and tired and old, his hands clenched together from the strain of driving. From Montana to Kentucky, your father’s been drinking nothing but whiskey, a flash of silver from his flask, and everyone can smell it, but nobody’s saying a word.

Bobby says, “They say the patients were tortured,” your father watching Bobby’s finger tracing circles, your father and his heavy eyes, he’s listening, but he’s not saying anything. Sammy hanging stiff with excitement on Bobby’s every word, looking at the map, looking at your father’s face, looking at you, still and silent on the bed, the knots of anxiety winding their way through your muscles.

Bobby says, “They say a lot of them were killed from the experiments, doctors trying to find a cure,” and you know what that means: pissed off ghosts with penchants for things like electro shock therapy and needles, your father has killed plenty of those.

Sammy’s sitting shock-still next to you, his fingers digging into the binding of one of his schoolbooks, math or science or something. In Montana, you would have known. In Montana, your father wouldn’t have even let Sammy in on this particular conversation, Bobby’s pictures of orbs and diagrams of torture implements, Bobby’s counts of suicidal nurses and demon doctors, patients gasping and dying at every corner. Your father and his flask of whiskey, he doesn’t seem to mind that he’s pushing Sammy into early adulthood, the deep end of the pool where nobody will ever be able to tell him that everything will okay, that, don’t worry, honey, he’ll make it out somehow.

Bobby says, “There’s been sightings of a nurse on the fifth floor hanging from one of the rafters,” and he pulls out his notebook, testimony from one of the kids stupid enough to go in the place, flips through some of the pages, lands on a particular spot.

Says, “She’s supposed to have killed herself because she was pregnant out of wedlock.”

Your father nods, hums something low underneath his breath, picks up one of the pictures Bobby’s brought with him, something glowing in the north corner of a dark room, an orb or an apparition, something supernatural. His fingers tight on the picture, tight enough to steady his shaking, normally, your father wouldn’t even bother with pictures like this, doesn’t really believe in orbs or ectoplasm or anything hokey enough that anybody with a camera could spot it, because he’s seen way too much of the real thing, because he knows what’s out there and he doesn’t need a picture to prove it. His fingers tight, normally your father would roll his eyes at all this, this kids stuff, but this is Bobby, and this is how Bobby hunts.

Still holding his notebook, Bobby says, “There’s also been sightings of children playing in some of the rooms,” flipping through pages, finding quotes, saying, “and a stretcher that rolls itself.”

Your father still nodding, he goes, “And the poltergeist?” His voice rough and tired, his hands tight on the picture, the flask somewhere in his pocket, begging to be used.

Bobby says, “Nobody seems to stick around long enough to ask it anything,” but his humor is falling flat, his eyes locked on your father, his eyebrow slightly raised. Your father isn’t looking up, doesn’t make any move, and Bobby’s looking at you, sees the bruise on your cheek, but won’t mention it, even if you want him to. It was never Bobby’s place to mess around with your business, you or your father or Sam, was never his place to start caring, even if you want him to.

Your father touching his fingertips to pictures and papers, tracing over Bobby’s scrawled handwriting, Bobby says, “Four teenagers have gone missing, all within the last two months, most of ‘em going in on a dare, none of them coming out. There was nothing left behind to indicate foul play, no blood or signs of struggle. Nothing.”

And your father raises his head, says, “How do you know it’s a poltergeist then?”

And Bobby reaches for a folder on the table, on top of the map, opens it to reveal a picture of a man, old, black and white, maybe from the Twenties, his bearded face dark against the grain of the photograph, his eyes sharp. His hair is parted straight down the middle, slicked back with gel, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, and Bobby hands the photo to your father, who takes one glance at it and knows, just knows, his knuckles bright white against the paper.

Sammy still sitting beside you, he’s leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the picture, to see your father’s reaction, his white hands, the grim line of his mouth, and you know something’s very wrong, you know something’s not right here, Bobby calling you guys in on a case that he has practically solved himself, your father and the way the muscles are jumping in his jaw. You know something is very wrong here, your father dropping the picture to reach his hand inside his pocket, grip the flask and swallow down what’s left in one long swallow. Bobby’s eyes watching your father, watching the picture flutter down to the table, on top of the map, on top of the folder, the man’s face dark against the dim light in the hotel room.

And your father says, “Are you sure?” His hands on the flask, shaking more than you’ve ever seen them before, from the alcohol or the picture, you’re not sure. Sammy’s baited breath beside you, looking from you to your father to Bobby, waiting for answers.

And Bobby says, “Yeah,” his face shadowed, his voice clipped. Your father’s shaking hands, Sammy’s poorly concealed excitement, your muscles aching, the bruise on your cheek sharp against your skin, you’re not sure when you stopped caring about the little things, Sammy’s schoolwork, your father’s health.

But in Kentucky, well, you know exactly when things started to go wrong.

***

Bobby comes back scarred and bloody, comes back with a frantic look on his face, breathing hard through his broken mouth. “Your father’s gone,” he says, looking behind him before he shuts the door, grabs the salt on the table, pours a line across the floor, you and Sammy there with your mouths open, with your hands poised, waiting, watching. You were in the middle of your third game of Go Fish, Sammy was winning. Bobby has bandages wrapped around his hands, bits of poorly torn shirt, tied into knots to staunch the blood flow, his hands shaking as he pours more salt across the windowsill, creates a circle around the bed.

Bobby says, “Boys,” and his mouth is grim, his teeth are tight together, and he gathers you and Sammy to sit on the bed, to sit within the circle, his hands shaking as he holds on to your shirt, to Sammy’s cheek.

You’re thinking, Oh my God.

And Bobby says, “Don’t worry.”

Bobby says, “We’ll get him back,” his hand cold against your skin, the blood warm, the ends of his shirt catching the tears that fall down your cheeks.

Bobby says, “Don’t worry,” and Sammy begins to cry, great sobs that build embarrassingly from his throat, Bobby’s bloody hands trying to soothe his hair, his skin.

You’re thinking, Oh my God, because you know what this means, you know how this ends, the poltergeist your father tried to hunt, tried to kill, the poltergeist your father knew somehow, that look in his eyes when Bobby showed him the picture. Your father’s journal is sitting on the table just out of reach, just outside of the circle, but you know that if you look inside, there won’t be anything to help. There won’t be any kind of message.

Your father didn’t know he was going to die.

Your father didn’t know he was going to leave you, you and Sammy and Bobby, sitting here in your circle of salt, sitting here weak and waning. Bobby’s bloody skin, his lip is split and his nose looks broken, the bruising around his eye just starting to swell. Your father didn’t know what would come of this, this stupid life full of vengeance and blood, but even if he did, you’re not so sure he would have clued you in on it.

Bobby says, “Don’t worry,” and he reaches over to the table for your father’s flask, drinking until the color comes back to his cheeks, the dry flush of adrenaline, his hands flexing against the silver.

Bobby says, “We’ll get him back,” but you’re not so sure about that, staring blankly at your father’s journal, the misplaced bits of paper, the maps, the photographs. You’re not so sure that whatever’s been doing this, taking these kids, whatever’s been terrorizing this town, well, you’re not so sure that it doesn’t have your father. And, hey, you’re not so sure that it would be willing to just give him back.

Sammy cries into the night, long after Bobby falls victim to exhaustion, sitting in the hotel chair he pulled to face the door, his fingers light on the trigger of his shotgun, light on the bottle of holy water on his lap, his lips parted and ready to let out his litany of Latin, the old cross hanging from his neck. Sammy cries and cries, his body trembling against your own, your fingers in his hair, his mouth gasping against your skin. This might have been when it all happened, when everything came together, Sammy’s arms wrapped around your own, pulling you to him, Sammy’s tears wetting your clothes with salt. This might have been when everything became so clear, Sammy’s fingers gripping the collar of your shirt, gripping tight, the ghost of your father dense in the room.

You don’t cry, won’t until you see your father’s body, if you ever get that far, if you ever get that close, this poltergeist that took him, this poltergeist that he knew, this poltergeist that Bobby knows, his hands shaking as he flicked his lighter over the picture, once, twice, watching the ends curl toward each other. Bobby’s file on this haunted sanatorium, the poltergeist that your father died for, all those kids that went missing, that file won’t ever see the light of day again, but you’ll remember that face, remember that picture, maybe for as long as you live, maybe just until you see your father again. You’ll remember Kentucky, and you’ll remember your father, drunk and quivering, his flask flashing bright when it caught the light from the hotel lamp, his mouth pale, his skin dark, his eyes dull just like when he talks about the demon who took your mother away. Just like when he remembers how things used to be, how your family used to be, how things will never be again.

You don’t cry, but that’s probably only because your father never liked it when you did, your cheeks awash with tears, your bottom lip trembling, because your father could never look at you, the way you resembled your mother, the way it reminded him of her. You don’t cry, but that’s probably only because you’ve never allowed yourself to, not when your father needed you, not when Sammy needed you, because you’ve never allowed yourself anything before your family.

Sammy cries into the night, but you’re there, your fingers smoothing his hair, your hand gently gliding up and down his back, your words soft against the shell of his ear, just like your mother used to do to you.

***

Bobby dies the same year Sam graduates from high school. It’s quick and painless, but it’s devastating nonetheless, Bobby’s cold fingers grasping your own, grasping tight, one two three, and then slipping away, his lips blue, his eyes blank. You’re out of Kentucky by then, haven’t forgotten your father, but abandoned him anyway, left the sanatorium to TV show hosts and radio announcers, left the kids to wither away and rot somewhere they’ll never be found, no matter how hard you try. Bobby’s last words were of your father, telling you to tell him that he was sorry, that he couldn’t make it, that he never figured it out, where the poltergeist took your father, where he died, broken and alone. Sam won’t speak for days, searching the Internet for some kind of spell, some kind of magic to bring back the dead, searching books, searching your father’s journal, but you both know Bobby’s gone, you both know he’ll never come back.

Sam doesn’t cry this time, but neither do you, slipping into your father’s old vices, his flask and his journal, you’re drunk through Sam’s graduation, you’re drunk through Bobby’s death. Nobody ever thought you’d save the world, but you’re getting farther away from it than you used to be, before Bobby, before your father.

Sam doesn’t apply to college, doesn’t pretend to want a normal life, not when you need him just as much as he needed you, back in Montana, back before your father disappeared, before he drank himself into oblivion, practically begged that poltergeist to take him. Back in Montana, back when you cared about these things, playing house, cleaning up after your father, getting little Sammy off to school, back when you used to want to take care of your family, when you used to actually give a fuck, well, you used to know exactly how to fix everything and now, now nothing is where it’s supposed to be. Now, nobody is who they’re supposed to be.

Bobby dies, and everything about your father dies with him, the stories he could have told, the advice he could have given, the father figure Bobby could have represented. Maybe never as good as your father, maybe better, but you’ll never know, you’ll never find out, Bobby’s pale hands and pale mouth, his burning body on the warrior pyre Sam had made for him, after he’d given up hope, after he’d stopped looking for the answers. Bobby’s burning body as you and Sam stood there, Sam’s hands on your waist to help you stand, your eyes bloodshot and blurry. You’re drunk through Bobby’s funeral, you’re drunk through the three state drive afterwards, Sam’s shaking hands on the steering wheel, his glances in the rearview, catching yours in the backseat as you sprawl there, as you drink until you can’t think anymore.

You’re drunk through Sam’s wandering hands afterwards, the hotel room that looks exactly like every other hotel room, you face down on the mattress closest to the door, and Sam’s warm hands pressed against your back, slipping underneath your shirt, splaying flat against your skin. What’s funny is, you’re the one with the liquid courage and Sammy here is the one taking advantage, pressing his nose into the warmth of your neck, pressing his lips on to the side of your chin, and you’re trying so hard to say, “No,” but your mouth just won’t move, your dry tongue, your chapped lips. You’re drunk through Sammy’s kisses, pressed close to your collarbone as he gently turns you over, as he lifts your shirt over your head, ignoring your soft moans of protest.

You’re trying so hard to say, “No,” but Sammy’s not making it very easy, his hand against your mouth, his hand as hair tickles your chest, as his lips keep going further down your body.

You and Sammy, you’re all you have, saving people, hunting things, never getting too close to anybody else for fear that they’ll leave, just like your father, just like Bobby, you and Sammy against the world, and maybe that’s why you give in. Maybe that’s why, Sammy’s hands and Sammy’s mouth, maybe that’s why you let him kiss you and touch you, your eyes filled up with tears, Sam’s fingers digging hard into the side of your mouth, his palm hot against your lips, maybe that’s why you never really say no.

Maybe that’s why you never tell him to stop, his deft fingers on the button fly of your jeans, on the cotton of your underwear, and he’s pulling off his shirt, and he’s unbuttoning his pants, and you’re not sure when this is all going to end, but maybe this is what Sammy really needs, all those years missing your father, all those years of trying to find the answers, trying to find the clues, maybe this is just a delayed reaction. Maybe this is just a solution to all those stupid problems, this quick release of energy, his hands smooth on your chest, on your hips, his mouth soft against your neck, your throat aching for another drink, his hand still on your mouth. Maybe this is just what Sammy wants, all those years of needing someone to look after him, to care for him, you and your stupid bottle, Bobby and his search for your father, maybe this is just what Sammy really needs, your love and devotion, for all that’s fucking worth.

After your father, well, you’re drunk for most of your life, picking up all of his vices, picking up all of his mannerisms, taking over his life just like you took over your mothers, back in Montana, back when you gave a flying fuck, about Sammy, about your father, about what it meant to be a goddamn Winchester. After Bobby, well, you just don’t care anymore, about what Sammy does to you, his hands, his mouth, his perfect silence as he looks right at you, right through you, his eyes sharp against the pallor of his complexion, about any of this, saving people, hunting things, walking blindly through this whole goddamn maze just to figure out where your father is, just to figure out why he left you.

Sammy needs this, so why not give it to him; it’s nothing special, your body, your lips, your taste, as Sammy’s hands slide soft over your skin, slow, his eyes on yours, his face blurry through the haze of your tears. You never cry, but tonight just might be an exception, drunk and weak and breathing hard through your nose, Sammy’s hand still on your mouth, still pressing down, even though you’ve never said a word, even though you would never cry out, never tell him to stop. Sammy’s hand still on your mouth, even though you would never deny him anything he wanted, your body, your soul, whatever you have, whatever you can afford, because none of that stuff has ever been worth much, none of that stuff has ever helped you like it can help Sammy, his eyes dark, his mouth grim.

Sammy says, “I’m sorry,” but he doesn’t really mean it, not like it matters, not like you care, his hands and your skin, his hair tickling your chest, tickling your belly, as he leans down, as he takes you in his mouth. He doesn’t really mean it, but you’re glad he says it anyway, his voice soft and perfect, your chin rising up as you press your head back into the bed, Sammy’s fingers slipping from your mouth, your ragged breath, the tears that have escaped your swollen eyes. He doesn’t really mean it, but you’re glad he says it anyway, Sammy’s wet mouth warm against the insides of your thighs.

Bobby dies, and everything you’ve ever stood for dies with him, your father and his hunt for the demon who killed your mother, your father and his stupid journal, your father and his stupid hold on you, on Sammy, the things he never taught you, the things he never said. Bobby dies, and you and Sammy, well, you both just fall apart, no direction to go in, no code to follow, nobody to tell you what’s right, what’s wrong, nobody to set you straight. Sam and his hands on you, you’re drunk through his mumbled apologies, through the shock and revelation and anger, his angry mouth, his soft hands turning into fists, just like your father.

And, laughing, you say, “We can’t both be him,” his bottle and his fists, the shape of his mouth when you looked just a bit too much like your mother, back in Montana, back before everything just went to shit.

And, laughing, you say, “There’s only room for one John Winchester.”

Laughing, even when Sammy’s hands draw blood.

***

When you end up in Kentucky, you know that Sammy is just fucking with you.

He rents an apartment with what’s left of Bobby’s money, tucked inside an old coffee can that he had carried around with him, from credit card scams or hustling pool or whatever, whatever he might have managed, whatever your father had neglected to teach you. It’s nice and small and somewhat clean, big enough bedroom that Sammy leads you straight to, drops your bags on the floor, pushes you onto the bed. You’re drunk through this part, too, mostly because everything is calm and dull when you drink now, because anymore Sam doesn’t care if you’re even awake, his hands hot against your skin.

There’s no hunting lately, and no saving people, and Sammy lets you stay in bed all day, drunk and tired, and that’s just fine, even when you can only gather up enough strength to make it to the bathroom, to look in the mirror at your gaunt face, at your scratchy skin. You’ve been drinking more than you’ve been eating, thumbing through your father’s journal, tracing his handwriting with your fingertips, as soft as Sammy’s hands on you. You’ve been drinking more than you’ve been sleeping, eyes bloodshot and wide open, pulling away from Sam’s touch, the only distance you could ever manage.

What’s funny is, you’ve been thinking more about that poltergeist now than right after your father disappeared. Really, there can only be one John Winchester, but you could never be it, your tongue too heavy and coated with liquor, your eyes sliding shut with exhaustion, your body limp, your chest pulled tight with each elaborate breath. Really, you’d never make it if it weren’t for Sam, finding some stupid nine to five job to tide you over until you can get over this, whatever this is. Bringing home the whiskey that rolls smooth down your throat, filling up your father’s flask to the very top, really, Sam’s always been the replacement for your father. You’ve just been disillusioned all these years.

What’s funny is, Sam might never be your father, but he’s a lot closer than you could ever be, no matter how much alcohol you drink.

When you end up in Kentucky, Sam tells you that your father’s really still here, okay, really still alive, because he’s been calling out to him in his dreams, alright? He’s been begging Sam to find him.

You might be drunk, but you’re not stupid. You say, “Dad’s been calling out to you?”

And Sam says, “Yes,” his eyes dark, his voice sharp. What’s funny is, the more you drink, the less careful you become.

And you say, “In your dreams?”

And Sam says, “Yes,” his hands tightening their grip on your arm, his nails digging into the skin, his thumb pressing hard. What’s funny is, the more you drink, the more you want Sam’s skin touching yours, no matter how much it hurts.

And you say, “Begging?”

And Sam’s fingernails are starting to draw blood, even though they’re short, even though you can barely feel the pain, the whiskey that’s running through your bloodstream, that’s coursing through your veins. And Sam says, “Dean,” and his voice is low, almost a growl, almost as if you were some sort of prey, his prey.

But what’s funny is, you don’t ever remember your father begging when he was still alive. You don’t ever remember him even saying please.

Sam says, “He visits me in my dreams, and he asks for our help.”

Sam says, “He doesn’t know where he is, but he knows how we can find him.”

And you say, “Oh, fuck no,” because you know where this is going. You know where this has been going ever since you reached the Kentucky state line, looking at the sign from where you lay, bleary-eyed and unkempt in the backseat.

And Sam says, “We have to, it’s our only link to him.”

You want to say, “Bobby went to the sanitarium, too, and look where that got him,” but Sam won’t take no for an answer, not when it comes to Dad, not when it comes to family, and you of all people should know that.

Sam says, “It’s the only way we can get him back.”

Says, “It’s the only way we can ever see him again.”

Says, “He would do it for us.”

And you swallow down another gulp of whiskey, the sweet sting grateful as it slides down your throat.

***

The night before your last, Sam says, “We should celebrate.” This is before the sanitarium, this is before your last stupid look at sanity, the whiskey bottle dropped from your shaking hands, shattering against the wood of the floor, dusty and brittle.

The night before your last, Sam runs his hands through your hair on the bed, his naked chest against yours, your skin hot and sticky to the touch, the fan’s blades spinning slowly on the dresser, the hot Kentucky heat soaking you through the bone. Sam and his tan skin, you’re looking paler these days, sallow and soft, the dark circles around your eyes, the way your hands won’t stop shaking, cracked and frail, your nails bitten down to the quick and bleeding. Sam says, “We should make this count.”

This whatever this is between you and him, you both know it won’t last for long, with what you’re about to do, with who you’re about to try and save. You both know it wasn’t meant to last long, his fingers trailing over your face, your neck, your long exhale of breath, the heat that just won’t give up. You both know this has always been wrong.

Sam says, “Let’s do something we’ve never done before.”

Says, “Something we’ve always wanted to.”

And you say, “Bowling?”

And Sam says no. Sam says something you’ve never allowed yourself to do, something you’ve always had at the back of your mind, pulsating there like Christmas lights, red and green and white, on and off and on again, something that your father has trained you for, ever since you were little, ever since your mother died, but always kept you from. Something that your father would never allow, something that your father has tried to steer you away from, no matter how much you’ve thought about it, no matter how much you’ve fantasized, your fingers running down your body, hesitating over the buttons of your jeans, those first few moments of morality. Those first few moments of ethics, the way your skin feels warm and alive beneath your palm.

And Sam says, “Something you’ve thought about just as much as I have.”

Says, “Something you keep out of your mind only by drinking all that fucking whiskey,” the flask shining silver in your hand, the bottle perched precariously on the nightstand, warm and welcome and inviting, those first few swallows like steel against the back of your throat. Those first few swallows like blood and flesh and the glint of your knife in the low lamplight, shiny, swollen.

Sam says, “This is the last night.” Before you die, before your father comes back, before everything starts all over again, the hunting things, the saving people, Bobby’s cold body dead and burned until he was just tiny bits of ash, dead and long gone, your father’s face haunting you in your sleep, haunting Sam, his voice calling out in the night. Before everything, Kentucky and its stupid fucking grip on you, on Sam, on your father, gone but definitely not forgotten, no matter how far you run away, no matter how many times you try to get peace.

Sam says, “This is it.”

Says, “This is the last time.”

And maybe that’s a good thing, but you’re not saying no to Sam, no matter how much you want to, that last little bit of decency left in you, those last few moments of honor, no matter how much you want to just leave and never come back. To Sam, to your father, even if they could both hunt you down again, even if you could try not to leave a paper trail, clean and quiet and sober, no matter how much that’ll cost you. You want to say no, Sam’s hands on you, the sticky heat of Kentucky, this last night of humanity or civility, this last night of life, you want to say no so bad, but you know you’re not going to. You know that Sam knows that you’re not going to, reaching for your bottle, reaching for your flask, those first few swallows like steel, like blood.

Sam says, “C’mon, Dean,” and his lips are soft against your cheek, the sweat on your forehead.

Sam says, “C’mon, baby.”

Says, “It’ll be fun.”

Says, “You’ll love it.”

And maybe you will, maybe this is just what you’ve been waiting for, this relief against the uniform of blind nobility, of blind faith, in your father, in Sam, no matter how much you want to say no, to say stop, to break away from this family, from this burden. No matter how much you want to just leave this all behind.

Maybe this will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

And Sam says, “C’mon,” his teeth white and perfect, glinting in the lamplight.

***

She’s maybe all of fifteen, but she bleeds like a woman, and that’s all Sam cares about, the red against his sticky hot skin, the strands of hair that hang in front of his eyes, his teeth white and perfect, his hands big and strong and wide, her tattered skirt only moving when the fan glides her way, the ruffling of cloth against skin.

It’s your knife, but you’ve never claimed to be perfect.

And Sam says, “Now that’s more like it.”

***

The sanitarium’s everything you remember, the dirty floor, the moldy ceiling, the crooked walls on the ass-end of caving in under your touch, as you run your fingers over the dusty banister, as the stairs groan beneath your weight. It’s funny because this place was never your father’s grave, even after it killed him, Bobby and his sordid tale, your father there one minute, gone the next, even after it killed Bobby, a thousand miles away in the midst of civilization, Bobby and his burning body, his hands reaching out for you, his blood. It’s funny because this place was never anything else besides a job.

Sam says, “C’mon, it’s this way,” and if you look at him you might just see blood, on his hands, on his clothes, his face, his mouth. If you look at him, you might just see that girl, soft and perfect, her skin like silk on your fingers.

Sam says, “I can hear him, he’s this way.”

Right, you forgot about that whole psychic thing. Sam and his dreams, your father there looking just like the day he left, emaciated and drunk, his pale skin, his dark eyes, his voice rusty from all that whiskey, calling out for you, for your brother. Calling out to be saved.

Right, you had forgotten that your whole family had gone completely fuck nuts insane.

Sam says, “This way,” and you follow the dark outline of his jacket, the bounce of his flashlight beaming on floor and wall and column and floor again, catching dirt and dust and stale air. Everything is eerily quiet, everything is shock still, the ghosts you’ve heard about, the noises, the lights, everything’s gone stagnant and you’re kind of regretting coming in here, this last night, for your life, for everything. You’re kind of regretting making your last stand, what with this being so anti-climactic and everything.

Each room is filled with debris, stretchers and cabinets and rusty medical supplies, stacked together with unease, left behind to grow old and perish, just like the sanitarium, just like your father. Each room is worse than the last, the air putrid with mold, growing heavy, weighing down on your shoulders and throat and chest. You feel like the air is choking you, suffocating you, like it’s warning you not to move any further, not if you wanna make it out of here, not if you want to see your father ever again.

Sam doesn’t seem to mind, his flashlight bouncing around, the gentle sweeps of his gaze, like he’s expecting your father to materialize somewhere, somewhere close. “This way,” he keeps saying, like you have any other choice but to follow, like you would even if you could.

“This way,” he says, and you try to breathe through the fog.

“This way,” he says, and you try to resist the temptation to reach for your father’s flask.

The sanitarium’s everything you remember, the dusty rooms, the broken light, everything you wanted to forget, the stagnant air, your screaming lungs, your father somehow calling out to Sam, calling out for freedom, his rusty voice still stained from the whiskey he loved, the whiskey you love. His rusty voice still begging for help, even after you left him, even after you tried to forget.

Sam says, “C’mon,” gesturing with the hand not holding the flashlight, the beam bouncing off floor and wall and column and, finally, a glimmer in the air, shining translucent, shining clear.

Sam stops moving so abruptly that you barely manage to prevent yourself from bumping into his back, that smooth layer of skin, that hard wire of muscles. Sam says, “He’s there,” meaning that shimmer of light, of whatever that is.

Sam says, “I can hear him in there.”

Sam says, “He’s screaming.”

Whatever is beyond there, that glimmer in the air, those waves of light, whatever made that, well, you can’t hear a thing, this stagnant building, those stupid reports of lights and EVPs and moving equipment. Those playing children, well, they must know what goes on around here, whatever this thing is, they must know what it’s for, whatever it does. That nurse who hung herself, the pregnant one that just won’t go away, well, she certainly knows when to hide herself real good, because there’s not a single stir in this whole goddamn haunted building, there’s not a single goddamn noise.

Sam says, “He’s in there.”

Sam says, “He needs our help.”

Whatever your father knew, whatever he guessed, him and Bobby, suiting up in leather and knives and sawed off shotguns, vials of holy water around their necks, cans of salt tucked in their pockets, whatever your father knew before going into the sanitarium, well, he never shared it with you. He never wrote it down in that fucking journal. You’ve never heard of this, this shimmer here, you don’t know what it is, but you sure as hell know that you ain’t going in there, no matter how much Sam wants you to, no matter how much he’s convinced he can hear Dad. You sure as hell know that this isn’t what your father would want, not if you’re not making it out of there.

Sam says, “Dean.”

Sam says, “Please.”

And you want to say no so bad, you want to turn around and walk right out of here, right out of this godforsaken place and you want to forget about your father and you want to never look back. You want to say no and you want Sam to say okay and you want everything to be like it was, before Dad disappeared, before you started drinking, before Sam started putting his hands on you, before you started liking it. You want to say no and you want everything to turn out alright for once, Sam’s fingers on you, Sam’s mouth, you want everything to be normal, saving people, hunting things, you want to be back in Montana, Sam and his books, his hero-worship, your bruised face. You want to be back in Montana, wind chimes and split lips and the smell of your mother’s perfume, still nestled in your clothes, even after all these years.

Sam says, “Please,” holding his hand out for yours.

Sam says, “Dean, please,” the look on his face like resolution, like finality. He’s resigned, he’s ready to sacrifice his life for you, for your father, but you never wanted this for your family, you never wanted it to go this far. Even after your mother, even after you realized that she was never coming back.

You never wanted this for your family, even after you realized that it was always just easier to give in.

Sam says, “Dean.”

And you take his hand, letting him lead you into the light.

***

The earliest memory you have of your father, you’re four years old. He smells gruff, like aftershave and tobacco, and his arms are strong, unyielding as he reaches for you, as he pulls you against his chest, your fists tightening against his skin, his hair. Your mother is a blur, you’ve long forgotten her face, but your father is crystal clear, every detail perfectly mapped out, like a picture that never grows old, that never wilts.

His face isn’t weathered, his hair isn’t graying, and he smiles easily, the creases around his mouth folding effortlessly, his teeth white and perfect. He’s warm against your body, warm and sturdy, and you’re pressing tight against him, pressing as hard as you can, your little hands on the back of his neck, your feet against his chest.

He’s saying something, something you can’t remember, something that’s been lost, but you can hear his voice all the same, soft against the side of your head, the strands of your hair. He’s saying something, but you don’t remember what, his voice and his arms, and you’re just lost in his warmth, burning up, pressing tighter against him.

The earliest memory you have of your father, it’s his weight and pressure, his skin against yours, soft and strong, his voice, the words lost somewhere in the reaches of your memory, his smell like cigarettes, like Old Spice, undeniably his own. It’s his arms around your body, his hands interlocked across your back, your feet tucked underneath his arms, your fists clenched tight around his neck. It’s his warmth pulling you in, the strongest pleasure you’ve never been able to deny yourself.

The earliest memory you have of your father, it’s of his warmth, the only void Sam could never fill.


End file.
